And May Magic Work Ever in Your Favor
by Ayoshen
Summary: When sealing the deal with Rumpelstiltskin, Regina had no idea about the terrors that would await her in this new world she did not choose. Neither did Emma Swan, one of dozens of eighteen year olds in District 10, lining up for their last Reaping.
1. Once Upon a Reaping

**Author's Important Note of Dire Importance: **To say that lately I've been fangasming over the Hunger Games trilogy would be an understatement. I have fallen madly and hopelessly in love with it the second I laid eyes on the first book. So I thought, what could possibly be more badass than combining the two things I love most at the moment? And then, the first chapter of this was born.** Yadayada I not speak language of your tribe since birth yadayada**

**Pairing:** None as of yet, but you know me and I know myself fairly well too, so I'd say expect future Swan Queen vibes because of reasons that are entirely too related to the plot. And mainly I just can't resist writing Swan Queen. And Red Swan. And Red Queen and…

**PS:** I know Ruby is probably older than eighteen but for the sake of the story, let's jumble up the age of certain characters a bit (because hell, Once needs more minors when it comes to me having to write with them).

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Once Upon a Reaping<strong>

Once upon a time, there was an enchanted forest filled with all the classic characters we know – or think we know. One day they found themselves trapped in a place where all their happy endings were stolen.

Our world.

"What did you tell them?" asked the Evil Queen upon discovering that her mortal enemies, Snow White and Prince Charming, had been searching for ways to prevent her curse from happening.

"The truth! That nothing can stop _the darkness!_" Rumplestiltskin hissed. Indeed, his mannerisms quite often bore resemblance to snakes – in voice, in swiftness, and in venom too. Behind bars, however, he posed no threat to the Queen who, more than satisfied with this answer, was already imagining herself as the sole ruler of all the lands, when… "Except, of course, their unborn child. You see, no matter how powerful, all curses can be broken!" sing-songed the imp, watching with a knowing jeer as the Queen's apparent smugness turned to apprehension.

"_On the day of her twenty-eighth birthday, the child will return. The child will find you, and the final battle will begin."_

I shut the book closed and hide it safely under a fallen tree trunk. Although this might as well be the last day I can read it, I don't need more unhappy endings to start the day with. Besides, the odds are entirely in my favor today. Yes, I am eighteen, but I also have no extra mouths to feed so I never had to trade having my name put in the glass coffin more times than necessary for food.

Here in District 10, the economy is in the gutter, if there even is one, that is. Our job is to raise livestock and provide mostly beef and pork for the Capitol. As for what it means to us, well, in the promos they always say we should be proud of having enough provisions to make for strong and healthy tributes. Everybody knows it's bullshit but no one ever speaks their mind out loud for fear of being prosecuted. All the food goes straight to the Capitol and we get the waste – that is the old meat that's started to rot already – to feed our own stomachs. Legs and heads and tails only, no torso. Moreover, half the district isn't as lucky as to get this, at least. Those who own no cattle can't keep what they never had in the first place and are essentially considered useless to the higher powers. Those who do have cows or goats or pigs would never sell us any – partly because we can't afford to pay a reasonable price and partly because it would mean a decrease in income. Sure, if we were the only customers, they would have to share something with us so that we could pay for their meat or milk in return; but ninety percent of their deals are with the Peacekeepers. They don't need the poor to wear them down.

Then there are people like me, who make a living hunting outside the walls of the district, never staying in one place for too long. The only places I return to is the log with my book and the district school. Not because I'm a student; I've never attended school in my life. It's not like they teach you anything useful – mostly just propaganda about the various ways we should worship the Capitol in our everyday lives. I come there because of one of the teachers. I don't know her full name; everybody just calls her Mary Margaret. She trades with me from time to time. I prefer selling what I can to her because she gives me a cup of hot chocolate every time; it's her way of greeting me. I have no idea where she gets it from, but I'm not stupid enough to ask.

Mary Margaret is about thirty years old from what I can guess – come to think of it, her appearance hasn't changed much for as long as I can remember – and she's always taught first graders. Her hair is short, black as ebony, in contrast with her pale skin, much like the shade of mine. Mary is also the only person who's ever smiled at me for reasons unknown to me. Then again, she smiles at everyone. I consider myself lucky to never have been in her class because her sweetness would probably make me feel sick to my stomach eventually.

Normally, not attending school is strictly forbidden, of course. I'm the only exception (perhaps in the history of the district) because, to put it simply, I don't belong here. Really, I don't. All I know is that the Peacekeepers found me somewhere in the woods as a newborn infant when they were scanning the area for deserters and, because District 10 had the lowest population growth rate at the time, they dropped me off here, no strings attached. It doesn't take a genius to figure out they hoped I would carry children in a few years, like a living incubation box. Luckily I'm not a boy, because if I were, I'm pretty sure they would have killed me on the spot. (Though that depends on your definition of 'lucky'.) And because everyone's life is strictly planned out since their birth here and adding me to the equation would prove to be too much paperwork for the local Peacekeepers' lazy asses, I ended up in the hospital. As soon as I could walk and speak fluently, they kicked me out.

The only thing I remember from that period of my childhood – before I stole my bow and arrows – is Mary Margaret, who shared a loaf of bread with me when I was but a crying, starving child out in the rain. We never talk much, (which I guess is my fault, me not being particularly talkative) but she's about as close as you can get to a friend of mine.

Not today, though. Today, everybody is on their own and for a few hours, we are all, rich and poor, old and young, equal. It's the day of the Reaping; the day they sentence two of our kids to death and send them into the arena to participate in mortal combat against the other districts' recruits. Oddly enough, I'm not as nervous as people would expect me to be. I used to freak out just like everyone else when I was younger, but over the years I grew number and number to the mass hysteria that ensues every year. Besides, like I said, the odds are in my favor today, and it's my last Reaping, too. If I survive this one, I will be free for the rest of my life. Free as far as the cage goes.

I don't know why I hate the Capitol more – because they kill children (and don't tell me they die at the hands of others; it's the Capitol who puts weapons in their hands) or because they make it a celebration. Usually everywhere I look, people are running around in ragged leather pants and simple shirts, up to their necks in dirt from their labor since we're not too keen on hygiene. For most, a bath is a once a month or so occasion because we don't have enough water. During winter months it's even more rare to find a clean person because the water we get is barely ever hot. It's one of the many tolls of living in a peripheral district. Not like I speak from experience; I wash myself and my clothes out in the wild in this lake I know of, and I consider it a blessing.

On Reaping Day, it's that one day of the month. Everyone's as tidy as alabaster and they groom themselves and pick out their finest dresses and suits from a chest which dust is piling up on. A part of me is glad I possess no such chest, since at least in some way I can steer clear of this masquerade. The Peacekeepers make us do this because they want the people to look good on TV, hoping it'll get them transferred to a richer district, or even a luxurious one like 1 or 2. Normally they're quite lenient, proven by the fact that no one's arrested me for trespassing into the woods yet, but on Reaping Day, the punishment for incompliance becomes severe.

It's the same old routine. Everyone must gather in the town center in front of the Justice Building. Once parents have said their goodbyes, they circle the square, leaving their offspring to proceed on their own with hundreds of men in white uniforms (which is their way of dressing for the occasion, too) behind their backs, urging them forward. They don't want to go, but they have no other option. I make my way through the crowd in silence. It's enough half the children are crying and the rest is too terrified to. Before I realize we're there, an officer is drawing a drop of blood from my finger to identify me. Then she calls out, "Next!" like I'm a packaged toy that needs to be shipped to a buyer. I may not be worth much, but I despise being degraded to this level by the president. How I wish I were on the other side of the fence right now! Not because of the Reaping itself, but because out there, I'm free to say whatever I want. Not that I ever do; sometimes, though, I engrave my thoughts into the nature around me. It's a code we both understand. I share something with my mother and in return, she gives me food for the day. It's a perfect system within the flawed world we live in.

My mother. I can't help but wonder about my real mother every year. Is she dead? Is she here? Can she see me in the crowd? Does she know it's me, the daughter she abandoned all those years ago? Is she hoping they choose me so that she doesn't have to be reminded of the weight on her chest any longer? Maybe she doesn't know. Maybe she isn't even here. Maybe she's from another district. Somewhere where it's warmer and happier, with or without me. It brings me comfort how much sense this makes. All my life I've been looking for her – them – in this hellhole, trying to place myself somewhere, watching the people, learning from their behavior, all the while I've been yearning to see a sign that would tell me, _"Yes, this is where you belong."_ No such luck so far, but I'm not willing to give up now, am I? There are a lot of people in District 10. Although if my parents wanted me to find them, they wouldn't make it so hard to look.

Damn it. I'm giving too much significance to this day. I know when I start sniveling a little that I need to snap out of it and pull myself together before tears threaten to fall. After all, we're celebrating.

After what seems like an eternity, the crowd has quieted down and everyone is in place. The mayor, widow Lucas (whom everyone calls simply Granny) is sitting on a chair in the center of the stage, her usually rosy demeanor replaced by a grim frown on her wrinkly face; her granddaughter must be in my age group, too. Yes; I look around and spot Ruby two rows behind me fidgeting nervously. Widow Lucas is tough; she doesn't let worry show anywhere in her posture. The risk of Ruby being taken to the arena is minimal because, being the richest, the mayor's children never have to opt for tesserae for food, so her name is in the reaping ball seven times, like mine. Still, it _is_ an option, and after her mother, it must be haunting her all day. Poor Ruby; all she ever cares about is her dress code (i.e. wear as little as you can) and boys. And occasionally girls when Granny isn't looking. When she has to work, she delivers exclusive food, top class leather and other supplies to customers from around the district, carrying it all in a little basket. There is no way in hell someone like her would last a day in the games.

I turn back to the stage when a shuffling sound distracts me. There he comes – our district's tributes' mentor, Jefferson. He sits down in his chair and looks all the children up and down. When his gaze reaches me, chills run down my spine. An enigmatic fellow, this Jefferson. And I'm not fond of mysteries. Mary Margaret once told me he used to have a limp, but the Capitol fixed him up after he won the games to make him seem more respectable a victor. He seems to have a strange obsession with tea and hats; even now he's taking a sip of the kind they only serve to important people, wearing a comical cylinder that's covering most of his ruffled, blonde-ish hair. At first sight, one could easily mistake him for someone plain and stupid, even, but one look in his eyes tells you he's not someone to be trifled with. Mary Margaret also told me he had lost his wife to an epidemic and now he's alone. There's no one more dangerous than one who has nothing to lose, I think. I stay alert.

And finally, the last member of The Itty Bitty Bickety Committee arrives. He taps the microphone and we fall silent. "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen! Happy Hunger Games!" It's none other than Mr. Gold, the single most irritating person in the entire universe. Just the way his cheery voice resonates in the silence makes me want to punch a puppy and eat it for dinner. He's obviously overjoyed to see his district paralyzed by fear.

Of course District 10 doesn't belong to him per se, but even though President Snow is formally in charge of Panem, I've had a hunch for a while that Mr. Gold has been pulling the strings from behind the scenes all along, judging by how filthy well-endowed he is. He has contacts in every district, as well as a mansion, each larger than the last. I don't know exactly what it is that he does for the president, but he must be a critical piece of the puzzle. That alone is enough for me to not trust a word he says. Also the fact that he has never once brought either of our tributes safely home, though it would be unjust of me to only blame him for that.

"Once again, we have assembled here to choose two aspiring warriors from our midst, one courageous young lad and girl, to partake in the forty-seventh annual Hunger Games!"

Jefferson is the only one who claps.

"But before we put our attention to the matter, let us remember why we celebrate this day each year. Ladies and gentlemen, kindly look upon the screen to my left, where we shall play a special movie, brought to you by the Capitol itself."

If I dared to roll my eyes, I would, and maybe no one would notice me, but I'd rather not take my chances today. The movie is the same every year; about how thirteen districts rebelled against their righteous leader forty-seven years ago and turned the country into a battleground. Footage of women crying over dead bodies that is so staged it hurts my eyes comes up, and a few seconds later shots of heroic Capitol generals and lieutenants replace it, complete with names and titles and a list of accomplishments, reminding us of all the people who died because of us, the districts, rising against their noble beacon. One by one, we were defeated, and peace was finally achieved. To prove how generous and merciful it is, The Capitol offered to only take two children from us every year as a miserable price for our treason, and the districts eagerly accepted. Thenceforth, it was sealed in the Treaty of Treason that in return for the Capitol's care, we would offer our own to fight in a pageant of strength, wits and valor.

In other words, each year they would take the bears and the deer and wolves and sheep from their respective exhibits and put them together just to see what would happen. But of course they don't tell you that. It sounds much less windy and flowery and magnificent.

Leaning on his golden cane (oh, the irony) for support, Mr. Gold demands our undivided attention as soon as the movie has ended. "And now, the time has come for us to choose this year's competitors. As always, ladies first. May the odds be ever in your favor."

I watch his every move as he calmly walks over to one of the reaping balls filled with thousands of tiny letters. He can't pick me. The odds are entirely in my favor. I steal a quick glance at the other kids, just to see how many there are. Three hundred at least, most of which have been forced by their parents or own willpower to put their names in the ball more times up to some forty tickets to the graveyard per person. Nothing can happen to me in comparison. Right?

Suddenly, I start wishing I'd told someone about the book I've hidden, or at least that someone will find it one day. That someone will hold onto the fairytales I hold in my heart, because they're the only thing we have. Please find it, I plead in my mind. Find it, read it, keep it. At the same time, when I see the kids huddled together on the other side of the square, I feel horrible for wishing it wasn't me. I actually know some of those kids. Those siblings over there, for example, Ava and Nicholas. I've seen them before. Orphans like me, both only having turned twelve a while ago. Ava is holding another girl's hand. This one is wearing a cape the same color of her long brown hair, making it harder to tell the two apart from afar. Mary Margaret mentioned one of her brightest pupils liked to wear a velveteen cape when it got cold.

Gold is fumbling through the papers and I can't stand the sight anymore, so I avert my eyes to the ground. Whoever gets chosen is a walking corpse and I can't even seek comfort in rooting for it to be someone I despise, because I don't know anybody well enough to develop neither negative or positive feelings for them – especially not children. Just not me, just not me, just not me. I haven't found my parents yet. I can't die before I do, I can't. Surely the reaping ball must be aware of that. Great, now I'm referring to it as if it were a person. The reaping balls don't feel; they serve their purpose and disappear. Like the tributes.

The flow of time seems to have stopped in place. Just as I begin to think I've lost my sanity, two strong arms wrap around my own and practically carry me forward, towards the stage. I look down and see white gloves gripping me. Then I'm standing below the steps and Mr. Gold is urging me to come hither. I want to back off, but when I take a step backwards, my back hits the solid surface of a Peacekeeper's night stick. I have no choice.

As it turns out, I might start believing in god in my young, but seeing as I am about to die, old age. Someone must have heard my thoughts and decided to punish me; otherwise I can't see a logical reason for what just happened. There isn't one.

I walk up the stage, focusing with all my might on holding back tears. This is neither the time nor place. I'm so concentrated I don't recognize Gold's voice until he asks the one question that could potentially save my life. "Do we have any volunteers to take the place of this young woman?"

Of course we don't. The fact that there hasn't been a volunteer for forty-seven years aside, no one would volunteer to die for me. I mean nothing to them, no loss. I expect nothing, so I'm not disappointed when I see all the relieved expressions. Not a single person raises their hand or sheds a tear. Perhaps fate itself thinks it's too cruel for me to witness this because my vision becomes blurry before I can realize the futility of my search. The blonde girl standing on top of the stage with a blank expression and quivering lips is the friendless orphan with a bad attitude no one will ever know.

No need to be alarmed; the girl standing on top of the stage is, of all people, just Emma Swan.


	2. Badbye and Farebadly

**Chapter 2: Badbye and Farebadly**

All background noise becomes muffled in my ears and all I hear is my breathing pounding in my temples. The whizzing sound goes in and out, echoing at the back of my forehead. Noticing the high-pitched whimper about to ascend through my throat, realization dawns on me that I cannot let that happen. In a few hours, throughout all of Panem, people will be watching this exact moment on re-runs and what will their first impression of me be? 'Look at that poor walking corpse in Ten. At her age, she should know better than to let on what she's feeling. It's bad for business.' As soon as they realize I'm a whiner, they'll start placing bets on how much time will have passed before I break down. The best I can do to not satisfy their perverse need for entertainment at my expense and maintain some level of dignity is to prevent that from happening. In an attempt to restore a calm composure, I straighten my back and allow my brain to accept visual and auditory cues again. Just in time, too, because Mr. Gold's hand is emerging from the aquarium with the fish he sought.

"Sean Herman!"

There, another death penalty for a crime that never happened has been issued. Everyone can exhale freely now. Everyone except for me and the blue-eyed eighteen year old boy, half my head taller than me, approaching the officials and myself slowly, accompanied by two Peacekeepers to either side of him. This gives me an opportunity to look my future adversary up and down. Physically, he's a decent candidate; strong arms, robust but fairly slim, clearly from one of the richer families. I recognize the confident stride of a killer when I see it, though, and this is nothing like it. This is the hesitant puppet march. Sean is obviously of the farmer caste, but his face screams odes to determination and that might as well be a threat to me. Without a doubt, he's the less lethal and more likeable of the two of us.

We're asked to shake hands for no other reason than to announce the start of the show by presenting a fair spirit before we kill each other. It's meant to be proof that we stand on the same, solid ground together. I suppose he's trying to do the same as I am – not sweat and keep eye contact – when he takes my hand. It's ironic, the difference between our perceptions; what the Capitol sees right now are two young people accepting each other as warriors. What Sean and I both see is a child scared out of their wits. The games are on.

There is no clapping or cheering from the audience, although they were prompted, as the Peacekeepers push us through the front door of the Justice Building. At least we get this tidbit of acknowledgment. You never see what happens afterwards on television, so Sean and I share one last panicked look before we're split and dragged down separate hallways lined with what should be paintings of past victors. Instead I pass frame by empty frame and catch a glimpse of Ten's sole female victor at the very end of the corridor. I've never heard about her and she has never been a mentor to any tributes in my life, therefore, she must already be dead. In the picture, however, she looks as fit as a fiddle. And that's why they never take photographs.

They lock me in a room at the back and then I hear several pairs of feet walking away on the other side of the door. Even if I had a little hope it were possible, there's nothing in here I could use to run; just an armchair and a table to accompany it. For those who are desperate enough to try to break the window on their own, there's a warning on the wall: _Unbreakable glass._ Mockery at its finest.

Finally I have a little time to think, free of the boundaries of presentability and façade. Why am I here? Could they see signs of defiance in my actions, however compliant I think I may have been? Are they going to subdue me, put me to sleep so I can't resist, strip me of my humanity before they take my body away? No, they would never do that. Watching the tributes struggle with primal instincts for survival combined with raw emotions is what sells the games in the Capitol, where sitting through it is not duty, but a sport. Overly engrossed in my thoughts, I don't notice the arrival of a newcomer.

"You have three minutes," says a distinct, Peacekeepingly authoritative voice, and the door slams shut with a loud creak. To my astonishment, I spin around to see a flushed Mary Margaret. She must have been running all the way from her spot at the square.

All I see is a tail of black mane swirling in front of my eyes as she virtually tackles me in a bear hug. My brain short-circuits as I realize it's the first time in my life I've hugged someone. I never really get that far; even when she sold me the book of fairytales – or more like added it to my share of bandages to mend my wounds after a rather bone-chilling encounter with a wild hog – I didn't hug her. "I'm not dead yet," I choke, the 'not' getting lost somewhere in a voiceless squeal as my vocal chords give out momentarily.

Only when she lets go of me and places her hands on my shoulders do I see the dry tear stains on her face. She is not crying now, however. "Listen, Emma, this doesn't have to mean anything yet. You've been on your own since I met you and not only did you survive, you, you're – strong and – clever, and you can, you know how to get by–" she blurts out, lacking enough oxygen in her lungs to finish the sentence.

"There's twenty four of us, Mary. Only one comes out," I whisper, having trouble acknowledging that that is indeed how it's going to be. The louder I say it, the more real it becomes. It takes a while before the implications of what I said sink in completely.

"You know I meant it when I said I would have taken you in if you had wanted to, right?"

My own face softens when I see her intention; she's trying to hide her worry about me, which I'm grateful for, but she's also scared I blame her for the heightened possibility of my death, even though there's nothing anyone could do to prevent this from happening. "I know you did," I reply honestly and smile weakly. And she knows I never would have accepted. In a few weeks, no one will care who the blonde girl from Ten was. Yet Mary, of all people, is concerned I would feel betrayed. As flattering as it is, it doesn't quite click in place. "Why do you care?" I ask incredulously, narrowing my eyes at her. No one else gives a damn. No one else is here to say goodbye but Mary.

I must have hit the nail there, because she's struck speechless. "I, uh," she mumbles, fidgeting, "You're a child."

As are we all. I bite the inside of my cheek. What she means is I'm a child who doesn't have anyone else. I'm alone. That's it then. That's my summary.

My gaze falls on her, hard, unrelenting, flaring. "Not anymore, I'm not."

The one I would once address only by name opens her mouth to speak, but then instead she reaches for something in her vest pocket and extends her hand to me. When I frown, her chin tilts forward to spur me on, almost hopefully. We don't have much time and frankly, at this point, I admit I'd take any hint I've changed something, even if it means taking something from District 10 and basking in the knowledge that it's no longer here because of me. Her palm releases a short silver chain which drops onto mine, stumbling over itself and giving off an eerie ringing sound in the process. I lift it and let the sparkly object hang off my fingers. It's a necklace and my eyes immediately slide down to the circular pendant floating at the bottom. I proceed to bring my other hand up to support it so I can examine the shape. In the center of the circle, visually emerging from its lower half and connected to the upper by its beak, is a strange, bird-like creature in the shape of a prolonged S positioned sideways, with its neck forming a loose, elegant curve, and its wings folded neatly along its body. From the way there is no transition between the wing and the outer circle, it looks like the bird has no legs. Having never seen anything like it, I stare at it in dumbfounded confusion. The forest's avifauna, most of which I hunt, doesn't do this creature justice at all.

"It's a swan," Mary clarifies, pointing to the pendant as if I needed the direction. "They don't live here, but they're very noble and their feathers protect them from getting cold because they spend most of the time swimming in water, and they can be dangerous but that's not the point," she stops to catch her breath, seemingly in a hurry to get the aforementioned point across but not being all too successful at it.

She takes a deep breath; our time must be almost out. "To remind you; when you've forgotten who you are." She brings her hand over mine, closing my fingers around the cold metal.

She doesn't say _if_. She says _when,_ implying it's a matter of time; a reality I'm only just learning to accept.

"Time's up."

Tears well up in my eyes before I can stop them and then they're dragging her away by her elbows so she's stumbling and falling over backwards and someone else is holding me back when she calls out, "Don't give up, Emma!"

"I won't!"

Shuffling. Snow white Peacekeeper uniforms. Pressure on my arms and shoulders as I struggle to break free and run to her, kicking and screaming incoherently, unsure of what to say, though certain a plain thank you wouldn't quite cut it to express my gratitude and my sorrow for her to hear. Later, I will be thankful they didn't let us form any last-minute emotional bonds just to tear them apart. Now I'm furious, my knuckles pale as the necklace digs into the wrinkles on my palm it might as well be rooted in it. Three minutes is not fair. Three minutes was simply too little for me to say what I needed to say and now I'm never going to get another chance again.

Suddenly, common sense kicks in; I can't afford to give in to a fit of rage now or they'll put me to sleep and take it away, take away the one memory I'm allowed to keep. I register they've already pulled out their night sticks and promptly cease all motion in a desperate attempt to show these faceless monsters that I'm more than a trapped, writhing animal. Mary is already gone. There's no point in defiance now, anyway. The Head Peacekeeper looks me up and down, contemplating whether I'm sane enough to be let loose. It's okay, I tell myself as my breathing slowly returns to normal. Whatever I am, this isn't it. And isn't that what Mary was all about?

They lead me down the same corridor we came from. Sean and his escort are already waiting in the lobby. We make no eye contact, focusing on Mr. Gold, who ushers us back outside and down the main street to the railroad station. I make note of all the houses and huts we pass, wondering whether one of them is Sean's home. Probably not; there's no room for cattle here in the town center. It's all bakeries and apothecaries and clothing. People are ogling us all around and for once I don't mind the lineup of armed Peacekeepers separating us from the curious townsfolk. I catch a glimpse of Ruby out of the corner of my eye, complete with her red hood and an empty basket, already waiting for a job. Can't say I blame her; I try to forget as fast as possible every year, too.

One last look around the only world I've ever known and then I willingly walk into a completely different dimension that is the first step in the Capitol Express. One stride through the sliding door, it closes behind me, and I don't turn back.


	3. The Death Train

**Chapter 3: The Death Train  
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Never before have I seen anything like this. So this is what being the Capitol looks like. As soon as we step in the car, we're greeted by a freshly vacuumed blue carpet and an unimaginable feast. Most of the food laid out on the table that spreads across half the car reeks of Capitol lifestyle. There's all kinds of meat cut into peculiar shapes, bowls overflowing with juice of exotic fruits, and what I can only gauge to be an ostrich head sitting on top of a plate usurped by various sea weeds in the middle of a circle of lamb stew. What catches my attention, however, is a thing much less magnificent in comparison; a tiny cupcake, one of many tiny cupcakes, sitting atop a glass cupboard bordered by black, opaque bars in the corner. I've seen a cupcake once, at last year's Hunger Games celebration. And cupcakes always go hand in hand with excessive amounts of liquor, bottles of which I immediately spot lined up just one level below the dessert. Let me explain the mockery in this. It goes like this; on the rare occasions that the Capitol decides to share a shard of its wealth with the districts, we feast, eat a cupcake, then spend the little money we have on whatever alcohol is close, hoping spirits will erase the memory of atrocities committed from our minds. I took one to avoid public suspicion, but never liquor. I don't fancy having my senses numbed.

Sean and I are seated at the back of the car while Gold excuses himself to go look for Jefferson. We rest in the satin-covered armchairs, but the tension of our muscles is apparent. The train starts to move at the pace of a rocket, though we barely feel a thing, and we're alone.

"Are you any good at this? Killing people?"

I stare out the window at the last bits of free nature I might ever see whizzing by in a messy blur, ignoring Sean's question completely.

"I'm not trying to figure out your strategy or anything. I just… I've heard stories about you. You're a bit of a mythical legend to the children."

I flinch at that. What is he implying? That I'm a fan favorite? That everybody likes an underdog? I should win so that his siblings or friends only lose Sean and not a _hero?_

Why should we talk about this, anyway? In this, like in all games, chance and luck are a welcome ally. For all I know, we could both be dead within seconds of the beginning. "Look, whether we like it or not, one of us is going to die. I don't want you to win and you don't want me to win; that's natural and expectable. I just don't think it's necessary to rub it in. Or get too close, for that matter. It's nothing personal, but it's better for both of us if we keep our distance," I snap, perhaps a little too fast (as the soliloquy sounds rehearsed), careful not to make any eye contact. Once you see its eyes – the window to the truth – it's not an animal anymore. I'm not naïve enough to tell myself facing him isn't going to be hard enough as it is, but I don't have to complicate things for myself. And him.

We don't speak anymore after that. I'm trying not to think about what he was trying to achieve with that small talk, but the conversation refuses to leave my mind. The only goal he could have had is to determine my strength in case of a potential duel. I don't blame him; haven't I been trying to do the same? Sighing internally, I close my eyes and rest my head on the conveniently placed pillow behind. The whole affair is, against my better judgement, starting to indeed look more and more like a game.

I snap my head up when I hear Jefferson enter the car. Before he sits down, he gives Sean and me an exaggerated bow, waving his cylinder hat in the air down side up as if he were catching flies. His gaze passes my fellow tribute out of sheer politeness – such that one simply has to picture him giving another imaginary bow in his head – and lingers on me just a tad longer. Instead of a secondary gesture that would be just as redundant as the first one, I see malicious intent, fingers that promised my safety crossed behind his back. _I don't like Jefferson._

"Welcome to the death train, tributes. Ah, I see those pained expressions. Worry not; I fully intend to get one of you home safely. Nevertheless, should the odds be against your favor, it's better for you to embrace the possibility of your imminent death." The way our eyes met once again would almost suggest a staring contest. Fortunately for me, only two can play at this game, and just in case it is, I will not let him or the other tribute witness my weakness, so we stay locked. Already he's mentoring me about competition, huh? Not bad.

As if on cue, Jefferson leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and the slight playfulness in his mood disappears. "As I'm sure the two of you are aware, I'm here to increase your chances. I'm not gonna lie to you; it won't be easy, champs. You're children. You may think the cruelest thing the Games do is kill – murder – bring pain and insanity, but it's not. The cruelest thing the Games can, and will, do to you," he zones out, then my imagination convinces me he cuts right through my gut, "Is make men out of you."

I sink in my seat. You can never say anything to suggest you oppose the Capitol on a dangerous level – much less if it doesn't trust you and you're under its watchful supervision 24/7 like us. I'm sure they're watching now, too, and even addressing the Games the way he does is considered heresy in Ten. The Capitol doesn't consider any of us to be grown men or women; we're sheep, sheep for slaughter. Jefferson knows that if we are to break Circe's spell and become men, we will become the Capitol. That's what the Games are for. If you can't beat them, join them.

As much as I might disagree, whatever Jefferson says during the next few days could mean the difference between life and death to me, so I drink in his every word as he explains the key mechanics of the Games. It's not only strength and survival skills that matter here; we're going to start fighting as soon as we enter the Capitol, for sponsors. In time of need, sponsors will be able to send their desired tribute a gift in a parachute right into the arena. Jefferson warns us not to expect too much, however. Support is a risky business, especially if the tributes are from some of the poorer districts, like us. Even then, help is not going to come to you every time you get in trouble. There's a limit, just to make the Games more interesting, and most tributes don't even reach it because even sponsors themselves cannot cover the cost of parachutes. Everything is about making a good impression and making people believe you can keep your wits about you for as long as the arena deems necessary. Way to kick my spirits down; the irony of how much I'm not suited for this kind of competition bubbles up when I snap at Jefferson, yelling that I'm not exactly a people person in his face before thinking. Yeah, kind of like that. The death train is changing me fast.

In the Games themselves, it's not all about survival of the fittest, either. First, there's the bloodbath at the Cornucopia at the very start of the Games. The Cornucopia is a giant golden horn overflowing with supplies and weapons scattered all around it. Everyone's going to try to get some, which is why this is essentially the most dangerous part. Whether we run or attempt to steal a bag of valuables, the decision is up to us, according to Jefferson. When we get out of there, we should always check our surroundings for signs of a water source. Water will be our new best friend. Wouldn't want to die off quickly of dehydration, would we? The arena could present itself in the form of any imaginable biome, but in any case, we must check for animals and moss, lest we don't last long.

Jefferson deliberately doesn't ask about our virtues or weaknesses or anything that might differentiate me from the other tribute, treating us as teammates for the time being, which I am perfectly comfortable with. Instead he focuses on basic things – most of which I already know, but I'm more than open to revision – like making fires and snares, tracking and if it comes down to that, what body parts to focus on.

Hearing him talk about it with the same monotony, my resolve is slowly shattering and I excuse myself to my compartment, but tell them to feel free to continue without me. I need to get some fresh train air that isn't breathed by the same people who find it easy to break a bone and rip out intestines but ridiculously hard to imply we're growing up.

I close the door behind me and fall face first onto blue satin. Blue, blue. I wonder why everything is blue on this train. Most likely because blue is a rare color to pass back in District 10. I find it hard to fawn over it though because after just a few hours, I'm fed up for life.

I wish I could cry, but some things are more important than not changing anything at all, such as, let me see, dignity, yes, that's the word I was looking for. There's no doubt they have cameras in every compartment. I could break down now, when I'm not on air and losing sponsors and therefore cutting the burning candle that is my life. Nobody would see but a group of fancy Capitolists in their fancy gold-laden chairs and drinking their fancy cocoa or whatever it is Capitolists drink. The thought of that is making my stomach turn and my veins contract. Pride would never allow me to stoop that low, especially not when I realize that at this very moment, there are 22 tributes struggling just like I am. A part of me acknowledges the possibility this premise is wrong, that some of them are prepared and thirsty for my blood, and I curse myself for hoping it's not true. I hope they're every bit as scared as I am.

I wonder if they're still discussing the Games or whether they too have decided to call it a Reaping Day. Maybe the guy asked Jefferson about how to fight me. If I am as much of a legend as he claims, he knows I hunt with a bow whereas I have no idea what to expect from him. None. That gives him an advantage, at least on this train. Assuming he has seized the opportunity, I could do the same thing later, see if Jefferson's ever heard of him before, but there's no logical reason for why my chances should be greater than those of a boy with a home and a family. Besides, it's not like Jefferson's going to fight him for me. I make a mental note to separate myself from him as soon as the gong rings, just in case.

The night is long. When I finally manage to fall asleep, I dream of being crushed by a giant three-headed snake at a ghastly empty railroad station where no one can hear my ribs crack.

When I wake up shaking and sweaty, I notice the blanket has found its way off the bed sometime during the night. I change back into my brown leather hunting jacket and pants and walk to the dining car to see I'm the only person awake. No wonder; there's a screen displaying current time covering an expanse where a whole window could have been otherwise. The sun has barely risen. Yet another example of the Capitol's cruelty; reminding us, wherever we go, that our days are limited. I eat alone and my meal is meager; a slice of bread with peach jam and another with a crunchy, gluey substance labeled peanut butter. (Why would they grind peanuts, of all things, when they're much less sticky in their solid state?) At first I watch the mountains in the faraway skies and wonder if I could survive there. Clutching the silver swan hugging my neck in my palm, I wonder what pointless propaganda Mary is teaching and get lost counting down minutes and seconds to my death until the numbers start to swim in my vision.

"That bread isn't going to eat itself, dearie."

I jolt and see Mr. Gold, still in his plain turquoise pajama suit, sit down noiselessly beside me. (It startles me because I'm used to loud creaking whenever that happens.) He looks different today – or maybe it's just the change in environment. The wrinkles on his forehead seem deeper, casting a bigger shadow, making him look older somehow. Old and troubled. He lays his cane against the edge of the table and begins to help himself to a healthy breakfast.

"I'm not really hungry," I mutter, dropping the piece of bread back on my plate.

He laughs, again without noise. Strange. "How about we make a deal? You eat that and I will tell you a little secret. Agreed?"

"What secret?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret, now would it?"

Rolling my eyes, I do as I'm told, raising my eyebrows expectantly. "So?"

Gold sighs in this humiliating way that makes me feel like I'm a kid sitting on his knees as he explains how babies are made. "As you know, the arena is different each year. Sometimes, you might find things in there that demand your attention. You will see things you've never seen before. Beautiful things; flowers of vibrant colors, even entire lively sceneries. It's quite a breathtaking sight to behold at times, really." _Right before they try to kill me,_ I think. He pauses, taking the time to take several bites of his own slice and lick the marmalade off his finger. "But most of all, I want you to remember one thing: when you're in the Games, it is critical you do not trust _anyone. _No matter what you see, no matter what you hear, believe in yourself and your own power."

He's making it sound like I'm going on vacation to Capitol Bay, where people will do anything in their power to get to my hotel room first, even sabotage my suitcase. "So why should I trust you with this in the first place? I'm already part of the Games."

The man grins like a cheeky little imp, finishing his breakfast. "I see we have a quick learner," he says, tightens the fluffy pajama belt around his waist and limps back to his compartment without so much as another look my way.

None of that is news to me, though. Surely he can't consider me to be that dumb. "Do you know something I don't?" I call after him.

He stops mid-stride, turning but halfway back to me. "Let's just say I'm invested in your future."

I follow in his footsteps, disappearing in my own compartment for hours to come to reflect on Gold's words, as the idea of confronting the rest of our ensemble isn't particularly exciting for me – that is, until I hear a boy's voice coming from the other side of the door as he knocks furiously until it sounds like a stampede of wildebeests.

"Emma, come out! We're here! Come take a look!"

Judging by the graceful melody of an elephant stomping on a herd of miniature zebras, I know he's already by the windows. Oh what the hell, I could as well go see what the fuss is all about. None too enthusiastically I exit and let my legs drag me down the hallway in what seems like the longest walk in my life. There he is, just as I suspected – except something seems off. He's paralyzed. Petrified, even. I follow his gaze towards the outside world, a world I never would have expected to see.

People of all kinds of colors, forming an entire array of rainbows in front of my eyes with their dresses and alien hairdos, animals tied to a device in their owners' hand by ropes and chains and they're all the same, cheering, clapping, delighted to see this year's crops from District 10. Behind them, a blinding curve of skyscrapers I have only ever seen in old photographs, glowing whiter and brighter than the Sun as they reflect the light it's distributing equally among them. Peacekeepers are forming a human barricade in order to keep the crowd from getting too close, but some are virtually gluing their faces to the train as it goes past.

That's when the boy steps forward, struggling to smile, if nothing else. "Let them see you. They're gonna love it," he says without turning. Spoken like a true tribute.

I try to let myself be captivated by the Capitol's beauty like he is, but all I see are thousands of pigs waiting for us to put on a show. Torn between anger and pity, I can't decide whether they're so ignorant or so cruel to act like this. "No," I reply and retreat back into shadow.

He frowns as if trying to understand why I wouldn't sacrifice a few seconds of my time to be polite and charming and pretty and all the other things Capitolists like. It's his next step that catches me off guard. It is towards me.

He joins me in the back. "Okay."

Looks like the puppet boy and I have reached our final destination.


End file.
